


Wishes

by compos_dementis



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-03
Updated: 2010-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-07 00:17:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compos_dementis/pseuds/compos_dementis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matthew's wishing wells are filled with meaningless coins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wishes

(_Alfred had always told him that if he threw a penny down a wishing well, his hopes and dreams would come true_.)

 

Matthew Williams had always been alone.

 

And it wasn't the illusion of loneliness that his older brother experienced – Alfred surrounded himself with his nations, with Mexico and England and the Germans and Italies and everyone else that Canada could only sit back and watch (all those nations who would never once remember his own name) and yet Alfred still cried loneliness. Still swore on his grave that he was alone, despite the hundreds of faces surrounding him every single day.

 

No. Matthew knew loneliness; that deep cold that settled into his veins like the snow that was always catching in his hair, trying to convince himself he didn't need anyone or anything, though in his own heart, he cried out for attention.

 

It had always been this way. Sitting there alone atop North America, the border between him and his brother left unprotected and innocent, though nobody ever tried to invade him save for 1812 (and that had been just so ridiculous they both decided never to speak of it again), and nobody ever tried to attack him, and everybody dismissed him as transparent and invisible and unimportant.

 

His one shot at greatness had been with one Francis Bonnefoy.

 

France had been like a father to him before he'd gotten handed off to England. Sometimes Matthew still dreamed of France's elegant fingers smoothing back his hair, or singing to him, or pressing kisses to his forehead until he was so dizzy from the affection that he woke up to find himself curled up beneath his own covers, shaking.

 

France had been like a distant older brother to him after the trade, when Matthew would cower beneath England's great shadow and promise to never revolt, just please, don't hit him again. (England told him that cowardice must just be in his blood, being raised by France for so long.) France hadn't come to see him very often, and when he did, it was brief and quick and just _'Be good, Matthieu_' until Matthew was on his knees and begging for him to stay.

 

France had been absent for the entirety of Matthew's teenage years. Through all of the growing pains that burned his knees, made them bony and caused them to ache like anything, through the expansion and the crackling awkwardness of his voice, Matthew had to experience it alone, with only his brother to talk to for help. And Alfred was, of course, terrible at explaining anything to him ("You're growing up, Matty, that's all – the aches go away. Just wait till you're tall like me!"). Matthew longed for France to be there, make the pain go away or at least serve as a distraction – but he knew, deep down, that France wasn't coming back for him, and it was pointless to wait.

 

He was an adult now. All grown up (though France had, of course, missed all of it, and when they spoke, France was speaking to a nine-year-old, a colony, a boy) and on the verge of importance (though America always hogged the spotlight, but Matthew couldn't blame him; he was always so used to the cold anyway), and he attended conferences and dressed his finest and watched France with careful eyes, just in case he might look at him this time (look at him and not at England).

 

It was lonely. So very very lonely. Matthew tried to ignore that feeling, knew it was ridiculous and childish to want anything anymore, to want… to want France.

 

And that want had grown along with his body, morphed from a childhood need for a parent to something far more dangerous. He didn't want France's comfort anymore. No, now he wanted France himself. Matthew wanted to be the one to call him "Francis" and to run his hands through silky blond hair, kiss away the hunger from France's eyes, hold his hands and be…

 

Important.

 

Alfred had always told him that if he threw a penny down a wishing well, that his hopes and dreams would come to life.

 

The bottom of this well was full of Canadian coins, drowning in the dark dregs of water where he had thrown them…

 

And France still hadn't chosen him.

 

But still, Matthew waited, and wished for something he could never have.


End file.
